A Daily Rate (16 page)

When she slipped away and left Harry alone, it was to tap lightly on the minister’s door and tell him Harry was awake.

It was not the first time that day she had been to the minister’s room. She had resolved in the watches of the night she would discover for herself what sort of a man was the stranger whom she had taken in the first night she came. He seemed to be all-right, and he had helped nobly in this emergency. Now, if he only were a Christian, how much help he might be with this young man. She thought she knew a way to discover for herself without asking him, so instead of letting Molly “do his room the next morning, she attended to that hall herself. She knew, if he were a Christian, she would be likely to find evidence of it somewhere about his room. It therefore gave her much pleasure and some surprise, when she found on entering to make the bed, not only the Bible in full view, but also a number of what appeared to be theological books. She glanced them over. There was a row of old familiar ones, in rusty bindings, “Barnes’ Notes” and a few kindred commentaries standing against the wall, on the floor. There was a soap box beside them containing other volumes yet unpacked, not many, but at the top lay two of F. 13. Meyer’s, and Andrew Murray’s “With Christ in the School of Prayer.” These were dear favorites and friends of hers, and she began to hope that perhaps she was entertaining a minister. This hope was confirmed a few minutes afterward when the postman came and brought several letters for the Rev. Horace Stafford. She made his bed and set in order that room with a light in her face then, for was she not serving one of his Master’s high messengers? When Mr. Stafford came in later, she had a short conference about young Mr. Knowles, and they agreed that he should go to the store, and after the young man awoke he should have a little talk with him.

Harry lay still for some minutes reviewing his miserable existence, and going over the last few months of mistakes and sins. Suddenly it occurred to him that it must be late and he ought to get up and go to his work. With a moan, he turned over and tried to get out of bed, but he was dizzy and sick, and he had to sit still and cover his eyes. He was not yet so used to dissipation that he could rise and go about like anyone else the next day, and the dissipation had been deeper than he knew. What mixed or drugged glasses were given him, after he began to drink, he did not remember. Therefore, he could scarcely account for the effect they had had.

Just then there came a knock at his door and Mr. Stafford entered. He had been listening for some sound, and was ready. He wanted to help the boy when he should frilly come to his senses and realize his condition, and keep him, perhaps, from rushing out to drink again. Of course, he knew nothing about Harry’s past life, but he judged from his appearance and from what little he could learn of his character that this was probably a first experience, or if not the first, that at least he was not yet a hardened sinner.

“Do you feel any better?” asked Mr. Stafford, in a pleasant, everyday tone, such as he would use for any illness of any one.

Harry looked up, his bloodshot eyes and white face making a pitiful picture of wretchedness.

“I feel worse than I ever felt in my life before,” he answered, all the bright gaiety with which he was usually bubbling over, gone entirely out of his voice.

“Better lie down again,” said the visitor. “You are hardly able to get up yet.”

“But I must get up,” said Harry in a despairing tone. “What time is it? It must be late. I’ll get fired if I’m not on time. They’re terribly particular down there.”

“Never mind the time. You’re not to go to the store to-day,” answered the other quietly, in a tone that seemed used to commanding obedience.

“Why not!” asked Harry sharply, looking at Mr. Stafford with sudden apprehension in his eyes. “Have they found out and sent me my walking papers already? What time is it? How long have I been here? Let me up. But it’s no use if they’ve found out. I’m done for. I might as well go to destruction first as last,” and he sank back with a groan and turned his face to the wall.

“Listen, my boy,” said the young minister bending over him and placing a kindly hand on his shoulder. “Don’t say that. You are not going to destruction. We won’t let you. And you need not feel like that. You have not been dismissed. Your place is waiting for you when you are able to go back. The firm knows nothing but that you are too ill to be at your work today. It is afternoon, and you have slept all day. You are to lie still now until you are perfectly able to get up, and I am going to take care of you. Is there anything you would like to have?”

Harry turned over and opened his eyes in astonishment.

“How do you know I’m not to be dismissed? Has anyone been there?”

“Yes, I was there this morning and had a good long talk with Mr. Prescott. He seemed very sympathetic and asked me to send him word, if you were not better to-morrow.”

Harry closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He was almost overcome by the kindness that had been shown him. Suddenly, he remembered dimly the scene of the night before.

“Say,” said he, huskily, “where was I, that is—how, what did I—do? Who was down there last night when I came in? How did I get here?”

“I brought you up here,” answered Mr. Stafford, quietly, in a matter-of-fact tone. “Miss Grant was present.” He thought it as well that Harry should not know that Celia had been there; it could do no good and would only add to his embarrassment. “You have slept ever since,” he finished briefly.

“Were the boarders around? Do they know?”

“No”

There was silence a moment. Harry was trying to recall some faint memory. At last he spoke.

“Didn’t I,—Wasn’t Miss Murray there too? Did I talk nonsense to her?”

The minister turned about and faced the young man and said truthfully, “Yes, she was there, and you didn’t speak very respectfully to her, I must own.”

Harry groaned again. “Oh, she’s been very kind to me,” he moaned. Then after a pause. “But yet they didn’t turn me out of the house. If they had turned me out I could have stood it, but I can’t stand being treated this way. I haven’t been treated kindly since mother died.” Then his weakened nerves gave way and he cried, as if he had been a girl.

Horace Stafford let him cry for a few minutes. He thought it might do him good. He had no mind to minimize the offence. It was grave and serious and must be realized.

Presently he began to talk in low, grave tones, and the young man on the bed ceased moaning and showed that he was listening. When he was quieter, Mr. Stafford drew from him as much of the story of the evening before as he could remember. He talked with him long and seriously about life and the true meaning of it, about the wonderful trust that God gave each one, when he put him upon the earth and gave him the responsibility of doing the best he was capable of. He drew him on to speak of his mother and his boyhood life. He did not talk too long. This man who was a fisher of men had been gifted with rare tact. He seemed to know just what to say and when to say it and, what is sometimes much more important, he knew when to keep still. He gave just the right note of warning to the young man before him, but he knew enough of human nature to see at once that here was true repentance, and deep humiliation, and that that lesson did not need to be further impressed this time. What he needed now was kindly sympathy and help to get upon his feet again.

Harry, in a pause, reverted to Celia. What should he do? He never could look her in the face again, and she had been so kind to him.

“Tell her so,” said Mr. Stafford, promptly, as if it were the easiest thing in the world to do. “Just beg her pardon as manfully as you can, and then look out that you are never so placed that you will do so again.”

The slender frame of the young man on the bed shook involuntarily as he said fiercely, “I should hope not.”

There came Miss Grant’s light tap at the door, and a dainty tray was handed in. Harry thought to himself that he could not eat, that he never could eat again, but when the tray was placed in front of him, and Mr. Stafford said in his quiet, commanding voice, “Now eat every bit of that,” he found that he could.

Miss Grant knew by instinct just what to prepare for the invalid. Not dainties, and jellies and confectionery. Just a small, thin, white china bowl of very strong soup, containing much nutrition in small compass and sending forth an odor most delicious; some thin beautifully toasted slices of bread, a ball of sweet butter and more of that black aromatic coffee. The minister mentally decided that aunt Hannah must be an expert in the culinary art. So many kind women would have brought forth sour bread, muddy coffee and a piece of dyspeptic pudding or pie or cake, or perhaps tried more solid substantial foods where there was no appetite. He noted also the fineness of the napkin with which the tray was covered, the thin transparency of the china bowl, and that the spool was apparently solid silver, old and thin as if it were an heirloom, but bright and unmistakably of aristocratic origin and pleasant withal to use. He noticed these things because they had been a part of his former existence before he had given his life up to saving souls, and because since he came to live in boarding-houses, he had sometimes missed their absence in a vague, undefined way. He had not known that he cared about these little accessories of a refined life, but he was conscious that he recognized a friendly look in that spoon and bowl and fine linen. He did not know that these things were among the very few bits of home that Miss Grant had brought with her, and that she had carefully hunted them out of a trunk that had not yet been unpacked, because she felt that perhaps these dishes might help in the work of saving that soul.

Nor was she wrong. Harry knew silver when he saw it. Thus lunch seemed like one his mother would have prepared for him.

“Now, sir,” said Mr. Stafford, as he lighted the gas and prepared to be cheerful while the young man ate his supper, “you must forget everything about this for a while, and just eat your supper and enjoy it.” He laughed pleasantly, and Harry looked up with a wan smile and thanked him in his heart for lifting the heavy burden for a few minutes. Mr. Stafford could talk, even if Harry just then could not, and he showed that he had no trouble in summoning to his command just the right thing at the right time. He began to tell in detail the story of a young man in whom he was interested, who had a wife and young family dependent upon his efforts, and who was out of work, and unable to find a position He had spent some time that day trying to find him work, unsuccessfully, and he told his various efforts describing the different employers so well, that once Harry forgot his own troubles and was beguiled into a laugh.

Celia, passing the door just then, heard them laughing and one more little wrinkle crept into her white brow of care. She thought Mr. Stafford must be a queer minister to laugh with a young man who had recently committed so grave an offence against the laws of God and of society. Poor Celia, she had had a hard day, what with doing her own work, and carrying on her heart the thought of Harry Knowles drunk. It was not that she cared more for that boy than she would have done for any other, but it was the shock to her faith in human nature to find one whom she had believed to be at least tolerably good and interesting, suddenly appear in the condition in which he had been. Young people are often prone to look upon their faith in human nature as something akin to their faith in God, something holy and religious, which if broken outrages their belief almost in the kindness of their God. Perhaps this is the reason that sometimes, sweet honest souls have to pass through the fiery trial of believing in, even to loving, some human brother or sister, only to find them utterly false. Such need to learn the lesson of quaint George Herbert, that

Even the greatest griefs

May be reliefs,

Could he but take them right, and in their ways. 

Happy is he whose heart

Hath found the art

To turn his double pains to double praise.

“IT’S my opinion,” said Molly Poppleton, standing with her arms akimbo and facing Miss Grant as she entered the kitchen one morning shortly after breakfast, “that them three-cent girls need ‘tendin’ to.” She set her lips firmly and then returned to the polishing of her range.

Miss Hannah went on with her work. She was rubbing pumpkin through a colander and reducing it to the velvety texture she always required in her pies. She waited calmly for Molly to go on with her reasons, as she knew she would soon. Molly finished the oven door and stood up again.

“Yes, they need ’tendin’ to bad. If you’d just go up to their room once you’d find out. There’s a stack of paper novils in their closet knee deep, an’ there’s pictures round that room of women from the-ay-tres, without much clo’es on, that are perfectly scandalous. Besides, they’ve got a picture of them two took in a tin type down to Atlantic City with bathing suits on, an’ two young fellers alongside of ’em without much on but a little underclo’es. They are grinning fit to kill, and look real silly. No decent girls would have a picture took like that, let alone keep it round in sight afterward.”

“Well, Molly, you know all girls have not been brought up alike,” said Miss Hannah, as she measured out the cinnamon and ginger. “Molly, bring me the big yellow bowl and the molasses jug.”

“I should hope not,” said Molly, as she put the jug down on the table with a thump, and went back to her range. “Not like them, anyway. You don’t know all. They have any amount of little pink and blue tickets lying round droppin’ out of pockets and the like, an’ I give that one they call Mamie one I picked up in the hall, thinkin’ it was something valuable, an’ she laughed an’ said it was no good, just an old the-ay-tre ticket, been used. ‘My land!’ says I, not being able to keep still. ‘If all them round your room is the-ay-tre tickets, you must’ve been an awful lot!’ Then she giggled an’ got red an’ says, ‘Yes, most every night now,’ an’ the other one, the one they call Carrie, she spoke up, and says she, ‘Yes, she’s got plenty of gentlemen friends, Molly, an’ so have I,’ an’ then they both laughed and went out. Now I s’pose it ain’t none of my business, but I must say them girls ought to be back with their mothers. They can’t be over fifteen a day, or sixteen anyway. They ought to be in bed every night by nine o’clock. They ain’t fit to sit at the same table with Miss Celia with their bangs and their dirty teeth and black finger nails. The fact is I’d like to give ’em both a good bath anyway.”